


Infinite Future

by softandhappy



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics, Final Fantasy Tactics Advance
Genre: Alternate Canon, Fantasy, Original Character(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24302356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softandhappy/pseuds/softandhappy
Summary: After finishing their analysis of the Durai Papers, Arazlam discusses what his next step would be with the young student who assisted him in his research. His name? Ramza.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Infinite Future

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by the fact that, in-game, Ramza will always have the name you use when you introduce yourself to Arazlam at the start. So here’s THAT Ramza, the one who, alongside Arazlam, uncovered the truth hidden in the War of the Lions.

_A commonborn youth restores peace to the realm, and now together with a princess, he forges a new kingdom._

“A legend that would be passed down for centuries,” said Arazlam, “though it is still one that overshadows a greater truth.”

I nodded while carefully setting the page aside. Arazlam raised his hand to his beard, stroking it in contemplation. He would be in that position for a while; it was a recurring pattern I’ve seen enough throughout our time together.

“That marked the end of Orran Durai’s account, alongside each and every testimony he had compiled over the course of that half-decade,” he mumbled. “To think that hundreds of years had passed while his papers stayed hidden…”

I held the papers in my hand and stared at them. The written words which once felt so unreal to me finally settled down onto the page. No more did they dance about in my head, deceiving my brain of what my eyes were seeing. Were I to reread the entire account once again, I would be able to read it as naturally as I breathed. It was an overwhelming sense of relief.

Perhaps that was the sign of our work’s completion. We had successfully analyzed all of the Durai Papers in its entirety. How many days has it been since we started? How many suns have passed by outside the window of Arazlam’s library? Neither of us kept track. I gave one last look at all the papers we had accumulated and let out a sigh. 

In hindsight, some of the excess documents we correlated to the paper’s contents could have been a side-venture for another day instead of a priority we focused on now. Despite having felt that way, I most certainly did not regret a single moment of it. Arazlam would agree, I am sure of that. After all, the prospect that our favorite folktale, “Beowulf and Reis,” held origins within the War of the Lions was far too enticing to ignore. The unbridled excitement we shared upon determining that Beowulf and Reis themselves played part in the war was exhilarating, to say the least.

Not that it undermined Durai’s tales of the amnesiac Soldier, of the mysterious “sky pirate,” or of the optimistic game hunter. His accounts regarding Thundergod Orlandeu, Divine Knight Meliadoul and Holy Knight Agrias were equally riveting

Then there was the… rather fantastical details regarding a mechanical gigas and ferocious “Reaver.” Reaver? Reaver.

And somehow, our unsung hero is the one who led such an unlikely group of allies. The young boy from House Beoulve, who sacrificed himself in the final battle against Ultima.

The Durai Papers assert that he was the true hero of the war. Seeing as centuries have passed since Durai’s burning at the stake, it was highly unlikely that we could find anyone else to corroborate his claims. But that was hardly an issue. Fortunately, present scholars do recognize the infamy behind the papers themselves, which means the contents would at least garner a considerable amount of interest. They WERE once forbidden documents sealed away by the church. Surely, were we to reveal its contents, Arazlam would be penned in Ivalice’s history as the legendary scholar, archeologist, and theologist who brought to light the secrets of the war. Following behind his laurels will be those who wish to interpret the papers for themselves. Controversy surrounding our discoveries will inevitably emerge. That matters not to us. Most likely we would both have already passed when that time comes.

And then...

Then what? We update outdated history?

Ivalice’s current state of affairs would hardly undergo any sort of drastic change at the revelation. The Church of Glabados has long forgotten the existence of the Durai Papers. While the content may mark a vile stain on their history, as well as show the world that their beloved Saint Ajora was nothing more than a sham, they will brush it off. One would expect that a corrupt group can eventually change for the better in the span of four hundred years. As luck would have it, the church DID change for the better. 

So now, the only worth that the papers hold was that they repair the tarnished name of House Beoulve. But at this point, why would that matter? The Beoulves have died out. We can give meaning to the dead lives we once branded as heretical, but to what end? 

To what end did Arazlam commit himself to this arduous analysis? I’ve yet inquired as to why. Frankly speaking, I unjustly assumed that he was another of the academy’s old coots excited to stick their pompous noses into “world-changing texts.”

How wrong I was.

Arazlam lacked concern for his own interests. Even I could recognize he had solely been working in the interest of another. Rather, the interests of others. During our time together, I saw nothing but absolute conviction in his efforts. Yet those efforts were not placed in himself. Oftentimes have I hallucinated a ghost hanging above him; a heavy specter which weighed upon his shoulders as if it were a burden from hell. It grew heavy as we toiled along our self-imposed task, and showed no signs of letting up.

And now?

I glanced at Arazlam once more. The specter no longer hung over his shoulders, its absence leaving me with an odd sense of fulfilment.

Still, I wonder. What did he hope for?

“I hoped to fulfill Orran’s last wishes,” Arazlam suddenly explained. The aged scholar turned to me and grinned. His intuition shined as brightly as always; his ability to read my mind so easily confounded me to this day.

Why?

“Doubtless you have already ascertained my connection,” he said, “my connection to the man known as Orran Durai.”

Connection to Orran Durai? Ah, right… your full name is Arazlam J. Durai. Forgive me for my ignorance.

“You do not need to look so distressed! Concern yourself with the details no more. Simply put, I wished to lay bare the truth behind the War of the Lions, to present to the world of Ramza’s actions just as my ancestor strived to do. I know full well that presenting the papers today will not achieve the exact same wish he desired. Even so, I pray that this can give meaning to the death he was unjustly sentenced to.”

Arazlam chuckled as he revelled in his assured success. So at the end of the day, he knew that nothing may really arise as a result of this. And whatever does, he would accept. I couldn’t help but smile for him. Still, I felt myself tinged with guilt. After all, my stake in all of this was arguably—

“I’ve told you my reason. Why not tell me yours?”

… Selfish. How rude of him to cut right to my issue.

It was complicated. When Arazlam had first approached me, I was just intrigued to hear about the war itself. Not many scholars today cared to revisit the war. Again, even if the hero's hidden role is revealed to the public, it would realistically do very little in the grand scheme of things. So while I was intrigued, it was not enough for me to feel invested.

That is, until Arazlam told me the hero’s name. Ramza Beoulve.

Ramza. The same name I hold.

The connection he had to Orran Durai was somewhat similar to my connection to Ramza Beoulve. While he shared the blood, I shared the name. And when he first told me of the hero’s name, something within me clicked. A call to action? A call to faith? To dedication? Obligation?

None of that. It was just a “something.” A “something” which made me want to follow Ramza’s journey to the end. And what a beautiful journey it was. I am more than glad to have assisted Arazlam in his endeavors, and I do not regret a single moment of it. 

“You look as if you wish to say something. Well, speak!” Arazlam prompted, “Speak to your heart’s content.”

Indeed, there were many words floating about in my head that I want to sort out. But above them all was one phrase:

“Thank you,” I said to him. “I know not of what the future will bring, but I firmly believe that your wishes will come to fruition.” 

Arazlam’s eyes widened in surprise. “Strange,” he mumbled, “throughout our time together I felt that I heard you speak so much. It is only now that I realize that this is the second time I have heard your voice. The first time was when you told me your name.”

Embarrassed, I turned away. I just prefer not to speak, is all! Arazlam let out a hearty laugh before taking the Durai Papers away from me. 

… It still has yet to dawn on me that we were finished. As Arazlam began storing away his possessions, I followed suit and sorted out the excess documents. I reshelved the books, filed the documents and letters, and when everything had been put away, I gathered my belongings. But before I took my leave, my attention was drawn to a single sheet of parchment atop his desk. 

It was a painting of a young, blond-haired man. He wore some sort of thick, black garment tucked underneath a large buckle to cover his upper body. His white pants were hoisted by extensions from the buckle, akin to a strange harness, while his arms and legs were plated with cyan armor.

Oddly enough, the face was empty. Was the painting unfinished?

Arazlam caught sight of my distraction and snickered. “That is an artist’s rendition of Ramza Beoulve himself based on the Durai Papers. I commissioned the piece in hopes of showing you. How unlike me to forget!”

I handed him the portrait. Arazlam then took a few steps back and held up the portrait, comparing it to my own appearance.

“Well now,” he gleefully exclaimed, “You hold quite a striking resemblance to the man. You even bear the same cowlick he had! Are you certain you hold no relation to him whatsoever?”

I turned away once more in embarrassment.

Arazlam accompanied me out to the front of his mansion. We stood together in light of the setting sun, basking in its warmth.

“My plans are to immortalize Orran’s accounts in literature as a chronicle. A team of experienced historians and I will take the events and rewrite history.”

He turned to me. “What will you do, Ramza?”

I pondered, though it did not take long to come to an answer.

“I shall wait for its publication. Until then, I will pray for you. On Ramza’s behalf… excuse me, allow me to correct myself.”

With all the sincerity I had to offer, I smiled at him.

“That his deeds might guide generations yet to come; that his name might receive the honor it is due. Please, on my behalf, lay the truth bare for all of Ivalice to see.”

The scholar reciprocated my smile, and said to me, “I see the virtuous heart beating within you. Carry it onward to your future, Ramza, and bring pride to your name.”

That was the last time I ever saw Arazlam. Soon after, he would publish “The Durai Papers: 400 Years of Truth” and travel throughout Ivalice to spread the chronicle. And just as I predicted, his work had become famous throughout the land, yet it hardly impacted our lives. All that occurred was an era seemingly dedicated to the unsung hero of Ivalice.

From normal citizens to the upper echelons of high-class society, everyone latched onto Ramza’s chronicle in the same way we had. The collective fascination in The Valiant Heretic’s journey reached the ears of both the church and the royal family. When news of its influence had then reached me, I worried for Arazlam’s fate. He had chosen to omit my name in his research. This meant that he would take every consequence that would follow in order to keep me safe. What if the church or the royal family saw offense to this? Even though they know full well that the stories only served to add onto history and nothing else, they might accuse Arazlam of presenting defamatory material against them and brand him a heretic just like his ancestor.

But then the unthinkable happened. The church took it upon themselves to recover what little they had regarding the War of the Lions in order to corroborate the Durai Papers. Even the current High Confessor reached out to Arazlam, not to accuse him of tarnishing the church’s reputation, but to assist in revealing every detail of the truth.

Up until his passing, Arazlam dedicated his life to upholding his ancestor’s account. Even though we never saw each other again, I believe that he felt fulfilled. At the very least, I was fulfilled. 

As for me, I had simply gone on to continue my studies, aiming to become as renowned a scholar as he was. At the time we worked together, I was still quite young, just a little over nineteen years old. My experience with him was arguably short, but still one that I carried on to this day. Arazlam became a driving force in my life, even if he was not physically present.

Now, in my adult years, not a day has passed by without me thinking back to the words he said to me. 

_“You hold quite a striking resemblance to the man. You even bear the same cowlick he had! Are you certain you hold no relation to him whatsoever?”_

Truth be told, the possibility that I share his blood, the blood of Ramza Beoulve, was not necessarily impossible. I was an orphan living in a convent, and I lacked memories of my birth parents. Had Ramza survived the aftermath of Ultima’s final explosion, then perhaps he found love with another in the peacetime that followed. Of course, that was only IF he had survived…

_… Did he survive?_

Orran Durai’s answer to that question is ambiguous at best. In his papers, he implied many times over that Ramza was alive, and I surmise that Arazlam recognized that. But he stayed as ambiguous as his ancestor. One of the final lines in his chronicle is as follows:

“Ramza and his sister were not seen again.”

Why leave it so cryptic, so obscure and unclear? Was that his way of injecting flair into his work? Or… was that Arazlam’s message to me?

I do like to think that Ramza Beoulve survived and chose to live his life without his noble name. He knew more than anyone else of how unnecessary it was to hold power in your name alone. Ramza Beoulve was the heretic who sought righteousness for the sake of others, not for his own malicious intents. He carried out his own justice, his own virtues, without the use of manipulation like his friend.

Arazlam’s final words to me ring out in my mind.

_“I see the virtuous heart beating within you. Carry it onward to your future, Ramza, and bring pride to your name.”_

I dare not think that I am related to that hero, however, I do desire to showcase what our name represents. Virtue and justice.

That is why I stand here today, writing my interpretation of Arazlam’s work. Like him, I wish to immortalize Ramza’s part in the war in literature. But unlike him, I aim to pen the journey as a riveting tale, a story that will rival that of all else.

My connection to Ramza Beoulve in name, my obligation to pass on the virtue he upheld. They are what beckons me to do this. And in the future, whether it be a decade from now, a century from now, a millennia from now, someone else will come by to uphold them for me.

Even after Ramza Beoulve has passed… and when the day comes for my passing… we live on through an infinite future.

That is what I wish to pass down.

Arazlam, if you are somehow listening… thank you. I dedicate this book, the “Zodiac Brave Story,” to you. I also pray that you forgive me, for I will use your name as the one who authored it. That is my final gift to you.

* * *

“... che! Marche, wake up!”

Doned playfully shakes his older brother awake. “You were drooling in your sleep,” he says. Marche’s eyes flutter open as he wipes his mouth.

“W-Was I? Thanks, Doned.”

“No problem!”

The young boy returns to his book while his older brother closes his eyes once more.

_What a weird dream,_ he think to himself. _The hero Ramza Beoulve? The War of the Lions? I wonder what any of it means._

Marche raises a hand to his hair and gently flicks the unruly cowlick. _How cool would it be if I were like that Ramza guy too?_

“Ooh, Marche, look!” Doned gleefully points to the window. “It’s snowing! It’s real snow!

He marvels at the beautiful falling snow, adoring the white wonderland stretching out towards the horizon. His mother peeks at him, giggling at how captivated he is. “Excited are we?” she asks her sons. They both nod and smile.

“I’m glad!” she says to them. “Hopefully St. Ivalice is as lovely as it seems to be.”

Marche’s head perks up at the mention of the location’s name. Ivalice? Right, he thinks to himself, that’s the name of our new home.

He recalls the name he heard in his dreams, of the mighty continent which shared the same name as the town. And when he does so, he hears a familiar voice echo out in his mind.

_Even after Ramza Beoulve has passed… and when the day comes for my passing… we live on through an infinite future._

“Hey Doned, wanna check out whatever library is there at St. Ivalice together?” Marche asks.

“Sure! But that’s surprising, you usually aren’t interested in reading.”

The young man looks out the window once more, and when he does, the words echo in his mind once again.

_I dedicate this book, the “Zodiac Brave Story,” to you._

“There’s just a book I wanna find,” he explains, “a book about virtue and justice. I think you’ll like it too.”


End file.
